


always room in life for this

by Siria



Category: Bourne Legacy (2012)
Genre: F/M, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-06 00:01:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1100090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marta would never have picked Paris herself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	always room in life for this

**Author's Note:**

  * For [florahart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/florahart/gifts).



> A Yuletide treat for Florahart. With thanks to my beta!

Marta would never have picked Paris herself, but Aaron argued that it was easier for two white people to blend unnoticed into a big western city than it would be somewhere in Asia. Anywhere in the States or Canada was too risky, too close to what had once been home, and London had too many surveillance cameras. So Paris it was, thanks to Marta's halting undergrad French and Aaron's apparent fluency in the language. 

"When did you learn French?" she'd asked when he'd handed over their new passports and papers to her for inspection. Or at least, she asked him when she stopped laughing at the horrendous middle name he'd saddled Eve Martin with. 

Aaron shrugged. "Couple of years ago. Had some downtime between missions."

Marta eyed him. That hadn't been in any of his files—Arabic, Urdu and Spanish, yes; French, no. "You were supposed to keep us updated about all new skill acquisitions, you know."

He quirked an eyebrow at her. "Really, doc? You want to go there?"

She hadn't. They'd come here instead, hopping from Jakarta to Singapore, Singapore to Doha to Frankfurt to Paris, handing their passports over to the immigration agents with bleary eyes and the crease of Aaron's jacket pressed into Marta's cheek from where she'd fallen asleep against him. No one had given Paul Martin and his English wife a second-glance, and they'd dragged their luggage onto the RER and headed for the tiny apartment Aaron had found them in one of the outer arrondissements. 

Some of Marta's clearest childhood memories were of curling up with her mother and watching old musicals set in Europe—movies where women's skirts flared out around them in a post-war extravagance of fabric and the Parisian sidewalks always glistened in the aftermath of a rain shower. Part of her was a little disappointed to be confronted by the reality of Paris, where the winter rain was a terrible shock to someone who'd spent the last eight months near the equator and the evening rush at Châtelet made her feel claustrophobic. Their apartment was tiny even by French standards, had a view of a Carrefour and a rundown laundromat instead of the Eiffel Tower, and one of the taps in the kitchen dripped perpetually. 

Still, it all felt like home in a way that goddamned money-pit in the woods never had. Maybe because she had someone to come back to in the evenings, dumping her book bag just inside the door and unwinding her scarf from around her neck while she sniffed the air to catch the scent of Aaron's current kitchen project. Cooking wasn't one of the things which came naturally to him even now, which meant he was stubbornly persistent about getting things right. Marta often bumped into him in the market on her walk back from the métro station in the evenings, coming across him deep in contemplation of a basket of potatoes, or engaging a fishmonger in an involved conversation about fish-gutting techniques using vocabulary so specialised that it was still beyond Marta. 

This evening, she poked her head around the kitchen door to find Aaron frowning down into a large pot that smelled deliciously rich and spicy, dressed in nothing more than his boxers and an oil-stained vest that he must have worn to work that day. Every inch of the meagre countertop space was crammed with jars and produce and utensils Marta couldn't even identify. 

"Tough day?" she said, sidling up behind him, snaking her arms around his waist and resting her cheek against the broad span of his back. 

"Little bit," he said, too lightly. She'd figured as much; the complicated cooking projects he tended to save for the times when he needed to get his mind off things but didn't have the time to run laps around the Bois de Vincennes. "Customer with more money than sense wanted alterations that'd make his bike's engine melt as soon as he pushed it above fifty, so…"

"You had words?"

"My argot's getting pretty good at this point," Aaron said sheepishly, turning in her arms and giving her a quick kiss. "He didn't take it well."

"Hence the…" Marta peered around him into the pot, but nope, still no clue. 

"Carbonnade. Beef, beer and onions, pretty much. Hope you're hungry; it's almost done."

"Famished," Marta said truthfully, because it was amazing how much of an appetite you could work up in a library reading room. She kissed him in turn before starting to rummage in the cutlery drawer. "And I picked up some baguettes on the way back, so we should be good to go as soon as the table's set."

"You get her to call you Madame Martin yet?" Aaron said as he gave the stew one final stir. 

"Never," Marta said ruefully. "I'll be _la petite anglaise_ inside that boulangerie for the rest of my life."

Aaron's face did something complicated at that, and he stood and stared down at the pot as if it held the mysteries of the universe. "You think?"

And they'd never talked about this part—not the first time they'd kissed, not when he'd handed her a whole couple's history in a bundle of papers and passports, not even though they often fell asleep holding hands and with a sidearm apiece in the bedside table—and maybe they should. Maybe they would; but for now it was enough for Marta to stand next to Aaron in their tiny kitchen, to lean into him and whisper "for the rest of my life" and watch how his face lit up, up, up.


End file.
